


By the Roses

by Talullah



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-27 21:04:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12590496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Talullah/pseuds/Talullah
Summary: Gilraen frets. Galadriel talks.





	By the Roses

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [Tolkien Femslash Week Bingo (July 15-24, 2016)](http://www.silmarillionwritersguild.org/tfw/), for the Rare Characters Card (G31) and Gilraen (I15).
> 
> [Disclaimer/Blanket Statement](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Talullah/profile)

**Imladris, TA 2934**

Gilraen felt more than heard a rustle behind her. She thought of turning but she drained in all possible ways. She had roamed to the deepest parts of Elrond’s garden in search of seclusion. Whomever it was might as well turn and go, once they saw her, the dour widow. Or, if it was something urgent about Estel they would tell her with no need for her to spend precious energy on words.

Someone sat on her bench, beside her but not quite touching her. Gilraen stubbornly stared ahead even as a wave of warmth emanated from the quiet presence, with the curious effect of raising bumps in her cold skin. She barely managed to contain a shiver.

“For a long time I felt like you do,” said her uninvited companion with a deep voice.

“My Lady,” Gilraen said, startled, as she rose, turned to face Galadriel and curtsied, all in a heartbeat. She had assumed the interloper was another one of Lord Elrond’s well-meaning companions but no, it was the Lady of the Golden Woods, a living legend.

“Please sit, Lady Gilraen,” said Galadriel. “And apologies if I have intruded in your solitude.”

Gilraen bowed her head and obeyed. “Not at all, my lady.” She had been introduced to the Lady a few weeks ago, when the party from Lothlórien had cantered into Imladris through the stone bridge and up to the courtyard. Elrond had kindly invited her to be present with her child, as if she was an equal. The gesture had touched her, but after a few greetings, it was obvious that the Lady was tired and wanted nothing but to spend some time with her grandchildren. After that, they had often sat at the dinner table, but Gilraen had kept quiet, as she always did, speaking only when spoken to.

Galadriel smiled at Gilraen. “We will be leaving soon and I would be terribly sad if I had not had the chance to converse with you if only for a few moments.”

“You honour me, my lady,” Gilraen replied.

“You are very humble, Gilraen,” Galadriel said. “Although I can see in you a spark of pride, under the blanket of grief.”

Gilraen stared at the split cuticles of her thumbs, gaining some time. “Was that what you meant when you said you knew what I felt?”

Galadriel chuckled. “Not at all. I am all pride, no humbleness. I have never felt inferior to anyone one, not my uncle, not the Valar, not even my teacher of old, Melian. Different, sometimes, yes, but not small. And I sense that you feel that somehow you are lesser than us, Elves.”

Gilraen’s blood rushed to her face, hotly prickling her skin. “I come from an honourable house,” she said, not quite protesting against a slight she knew had not been made.

“I know. You have the blood of Beren.” Galadriel closed her eyes for a moment and smiled. “The Dead Who Live. Wondrous people, him and Lúthien. I remember him so vividly, taking up Thingol’s gauntlet, no fear, no doubt… Those grey eyes, full of certainty and determination.”

“You have met him?” Gilraen asked, almost whispering.

“I lived in Doriath for a long time,” Galadriel said. Then it was her turn to stare at her fingers for a long moment.

“I have to be honest,” she said at last. “I came because your boy reminds me terribly of him, every time I see him. He is so little and already there is that firmness of character, that unbreakable will. You will have a handful as he grows.” Galadriel smiled but it was a sad smile.

“My girl was sweetness itself,” she continued. “Quite tame, not like myself or her father. That is what I meant when I said I used to feel like you.”

Gilraen felt her eyes tingling. Loss. That was what the Lady knew, not just her daughter, but her daughter above all. She knew the story, of course. Celebrían’s ordeal was the reason for her sons to hunt the wilderness for the foul things of the Enemy. She had nothing to say on that topic, nothing that would come out of that tight knot at the top of her throat. Unwittingly, her breath grew faster and her lips trembled.

“Shh, darling, shhh,” said Galadriel, taking her hand.

Gilraen broke. With her other hand she covered her face, trying to dam the flood of feeling inundating her. Arathorn, Arathorn, lost forever. No longer the strength, the warmth of his arms around her. Never again his soft laughter on her ear, nor the sweetness of nestling their sleeping child between them in the early morning light. Nothing but emptiness, the shell of herself trying to smile for Aragorn’s sake, until he grew to be a hero, then to die, just like his father.

Galadriel pulled Gilraen to her, kissed the top of her head and softly ran her fingers through her hair. Gilraen stopped trying to stop. She cried, she cried what she had not cried at the Angle, before her husband’s corpse. She had been strong, she had prepared everything for the rituals, she had washed and dressed him herself. Then she had taken her only child and had left everything she knew to live in a place that would never be her home, to be safe, when safety was not something durable. She had not shed a tear then, not a single one. Her heart had turned to stone, or so she thought.

At length, the stream of her tears stopped. She felt ashamed, for a moment, but then she felt free. Lifting her face, she straightened her back, like one of the blood of the Faithful should, and questioned Galadriel with her eyes.

Galadriel rose a hand to her face and wiped her tears. “Yes, I cried much when my daughter left,” she said. “For a long time. She was dead inside and I am not as sure as my son-in-law that there will be something more for her in the West. I hope I am wrong. I hope she is happy.” Galadriel bit her lip and looked to some point behind Gilraen’s head.

“But you let your sorrow go,” Gilraen said. “And you have come to me to tell me to do the same,” she added, realizing that she had understood that before.

“The sorrow never goes away, Gilraen,” Galadriel said.

“Then…” Gilraen asked. “Should I find pleasure in the little things, as I have been advised? Should I not dwell on the past? Move forward? Focus on my son? I have tried hard all those things.”

“Time…” Galadriel said, almost bashfully.

“Time!” Gilraen huffed. “I am no Elf.”

“There is time enough to fade a grief in one lifetime, even for the Second-Born.”

“I do not want time,” Gilraen said, angry. She lowered her eyes and her voice. “I want him. I want the life that we were going to have together.”

Galadriel nodded. “I know.”

The deep sadness in Galadriel’s voice echoed through Gilraen’s anger, loneliness, despair. “It never really goes away,” she repeated. “And even you, elven lady, do not seem to bury it so deeply.”

Galadriel smiled bitterly, her lips twitching at the corners. “She was the light of my life. I have never loved anyone so fiercely.”

“She is still alive,” Gilraen tried to console.

“And you may still once again meet with your Arathorn, when Eru bestows this wondrous gift of his upon you.”

Gilraen scrutinized Galadriel’s face. “You feel guilty.”

“I do,” Galadriel admitted. “If I had been there, I could have repelled them all, with my sword and my power.”

Gilraen sat quietly for a moment. “We had a fight, just before he went out,” she confessed. “We had promised never to part angry, but Aragorn had a fever and I fell asleep in the wee hours of the morning and he left without…” She stopped herself short.

“It was not your fault.”

“It was not your fault either.”

“Perhaps, but now that my granddaughter wants to travel to Lothlórien, I will ensure that no one, absolutely no one will touch a single hair of her head.”

Gilraen smiled at Galadriel’s fierceness. “And I hope I never let Estel go without giving him all my love.”

“You still have many years to enjoy him,” Galadriel said. “He is a wonderful child. How old, again?”

Gilraen pretended to believe that Galadriel had forgotten. “Almost three.”

“And he already speaks two languages! Wonderful!” Galadriel laughed.

Gilraen tried to smile but Galadriel’s ominous words of before haunted her. “Do you think he will share the same fate as Beren?”

“To be great, fearless and brave? Yes.”

“To die young.”

“No.” Galadriel held Gilraen’s hands in hers. “I promise, not that.”

Gilraen felt herself shaking, her face contorting between laughter and tears, and she leant, almost jerked forward. Galadriel met her halfway and their lips touched.

“I am sorry,” Gilraen said, when they parted.

“I am not,” Galadriel replied. She drew a wisp of hair away from Gilraen’s high forehead, then she kissed her again, on the lips, deliberately. Gilraen opened her lips, letting the kiss ignite her whole body.

“Thank you,” she said, breathlessly, as they parted.

Galadriel smiled. She caressed Gilraen’s cheek with her cool fingers, running them down to the corner of Gilraen’s lips, before kissing her again.

Finis  
July 2016


End file.
